


the legilimens

by bluebeholder



Series: the accidental epic [23]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Background Relationships, Bechdel Test Pass, F/M, Identity Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 19:40:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11996622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: It's easy to get caught up in a new life on Diagon Alley, with all the excitement of the place. But today Queenie's brought face to face with the fact that she's not really sure what sort of person she is anymore, and that's a fearsome thing to have to confront. Lucky for her, she's got friends to help her out.





	the legilimens

**Author's Note:**

> Introspective character study. It's high time for Queenie to get her day in the limelight!
> 
> The next two short stories will NOT focus on canon characters, incidentally. We'll be taking a look at some events around the world which will have a fairly significant impact on the Suitcase Family down the line, as seen through the eyes of a few friends that we've seen once or twice before...
> 
> But for now, and without further ado, Queenie!

Morning in Diagon Alley is a special time.

They awaken before dawn, both of them. Jacob goes down to start the day’s fresh baking with the house-elves, while Queenie makes her way to the front of the bakery to prepare it for the flood of customers to come in only a few short hours. The plate-glass windows afford a lovely view of the cobblestone alley, empty at this hour. The street is still dark but for the golden glow of street lamps, the windows of the shops up and down the street still black.

In the quiet, listening to the muffled sounds of Jacob singing as he works in the kitchen, Queenie cleans the storefront until it sparkles. She puts out flowers on the counter, and puts down clean white paper inside the cases, and sweeps the floor. The house-elves could do this, of course, but Queenie likes to do this part herself. It makes her feel like she belongs here.

She makes breakfast in the kitchen in the flat above the bakery. It’s always something simple, nothing fancy—they don’t have time for much more than an omelet or oatmeal or similar. If it’s oatmeal, Queenie makes sure to put it on before she goes down to clean up the storefront. There was a time that she’d have done their cooking start to finish with magic, but these days she finds that she rather likes doing it by hand.

Of course there’s always a rush. Everyone wants their morning pastry, there are deliveries to send off, and so on and so forth. Queenie greets everyone with a smile and a cheerful wave. They’re still novelties, she and Jacob are: Americans on Diagon Alley, and Jacob a No-Maj to boot.

“It’s funny,” Jacob says one day over a stolen lunch break out back of the shop, “but you’re starting to sound English.” _Like you’re born and raised in London._

“I am?” Queenie’s eyebrows fly up. “Really?”

Jacob nods and finishes chewing his bite of sandwich before answering. “Yeah. Real fancy. I guess it’s from being in their heads all the time.” _Prettiest accent I ever heard._

What he said is probably true, and she’s sure that what he thought is too. But there’s something about the conversation that leaves her with an unsettled feeling, a kind of uncomfortable itch, a mosquito bite in her head. Queenie tries to brush it off, but the more she ignores it the more painful it gets.

She kisses Jacob soundly before they go back inside, never letting on to the odd feeling, and hurries back to the front of the store. Millie the house-elf is overwhelmed. It’s a noisy crew of young men and women, riotous creatures having a good time at the end of the summer before they go back to Hogwarts. They very nearly give Queenie a headache as she tries to sort out their thoughts and speech.

“I’d like three marmalade stars—” — _or maybe four so I can have one later_ — “—only an iced bun for me—” — _Flourish and Blott’s next, hope they have that new book on Transfiguration theory—_ “—oh, a scone would be lovely, thanks—” — _Jerusha is just so pretty—_ “—just an éclair—” — _I’m not a glutton like Charles—_ “—two éclairs, then—” — _Henry’s going to drag us to Flourish and Blott’s isn’t he—_ “—one of the Nifflers, please!—” — _why’s Kate always staring at me lately?_ It’s all quite hectic, though they’re certainly not the most hectic thoughts that Queenie’s ever been stuck in; those belong firmly to people at MACUSA. Most of them aren’t very good at Occlumency.

Even so, by the time the group has gone on—Henry does try to convince them all to go to Flourish and Blott’s, but she hears the unanimous opposition win the day and haul him off to pay a visit to a curio shop instead—Queenie needs to sit down.

“Is Miss Queenie all right?” Millie asks anxiously as Queenie sinks onto a tall stool they keep behind the counter.

“I’m just fine, Millie,” Queenie says reassuringly. She can’t read house-elf thoughts and it’s really wonderful. She rubs her temples, trying to banish the ambient noise from the street.

The tiny house-elf folds her arms. “Millie thinks Miss Queenie is fibbing.”

Millie is really the best of the house-elves at working the counter. She has a cheerful manner and beatific smile, and she works well with Queenie. She was the fastest to get over the idea that wages were a bad thing, because she has the definite vice of appreciating nice perfume. And, besides, Millie is very well-adjusted to life outside the house, having had a family which freed her and helped get her on her feet to begin with. (Unlike poor Harold, who still has a habit of punishing himself when he so much as gets a speck of flour on the floor. Jacob’s very patient with the poor elf, but Harold’s heart might well give out if they asked him to work at the counter.)

“I’m not fibbing,” Queenie says, frowning.

“Hmmmm,” Millie says, just staring at Queenie.

“I’m not!”

“Miss Queenie is a terrible liar.”

Queenie scowls at that. “I’m a very good liar, just not to other girls,” she says. “You don’t look at lipstick and mascara and think a girl’s all right.”

Millie sighs and pulls a stool of her own around the counter so she can sit side by side with Queenie. The bakery is empty just now, so no one will care. “Cosmetics are tricky.”

“They get to everybody sometimes,” Queenie murmurs. “Even the person wearing them.”

“What’s that mean?” Millie asks, squinting at Queenie like she’s a puzzle.

“Nothing,” Queenie says.

Jacob’s singing in the kitchen again, some song whose words he can’t translate to English, having lost most of the language when he was young and going to school. He only knows the sounds but can sing them perfectly: it fills the whole room with images of _home_ and _family_ and _happy_. Inexplicably, it makes Queenie feel miserable.

“Why doesn’t Miss Queenie like talking about herself?” Millie asks. “We spend hours talking about Millie, but Miss Queenie will never do the same.”

Queenie smiles as breezily as she can when her head aches. “I ain’t got nothing to share.”

Millie gives her a flat look and says nothing.

“Oh, all right, I’ve got plenty to share, but nothing I want anyone else to hear,” Queenie admits.

“Millie thinks that’s fine. But she’s ready to listen whenever Miss Queenie wants.”

“Thank you, Millie.”

For a moment, they sit in companionable silence. Queenie thinks distantly about what to have for dinner tonight, about what they’ll do this evening; Millie hums some harmony with Jacob. Finally someone comes in, a bustling little wizard who works as a clerk in the Ministry of Magic, and Queenie’s taken up with helping him fill a box to bring back to his colleagues. She forgets all about her moment of melancholy earlier, until the day ends and the bakery’s closed down.

But later that evening, when Jacob’s gone off to have a pint at the Leaky Cauldron with his friends—Roger Preston from Slug & Jigger’s Apothecary and John Brierley who works at Praedico Predico—Queenie has time to think. She doesn’t like it all the time, this kind of quiet: it’s not nice. Sometimes she wants out of everybody’s heads, but other times it means she’s lonely in her head.

“Can’t imagine how everybody gets along without being able to hear what’s going on around them,” she says to her reflection, a statement she’s made before. Of course, the mirror doesn’t talk back.

Pursing her lips, Queenie begins combing out her hair. She’s finally gotten it cut back again; it got real long last year, while they were tearing around the world, and she didn’t bother to get it cut once they got to England. But it’s nearly December, so it’s only recently that she finally went out and got it trimmed again. No more Clara Bow curls, though: she’s gone short like Joan Crawford in _Our Dancing Daughters_. It’s Marcel waves or nothing now! And she’s considered going even shorter, like Josephine Baker, but Queenie’s not sure she’s daring enough for that.

Makeup remover gets rid of all the stuff on her face; it’s always a bit of a shock to see herself without it. Queenie stares at her reflection for a long moment, not sure she quite recognizes the person looking back. The eyes aren’t even the same shape, without the kohl she uses to make them wide and pretty. Her jaw’s a bit square, without the blush; her lips look thin, without that Cupid’s bow.

Bleach cream isn’t necessary, since she works inside and Diagon Alley is so protected from sun and wind. But the muscle oil around her eyes to make them droop less is necessary, and so is pore-reducing cream. Sometimes Queenie wonders why she does all this. On good days, she’d say it’s because she likes looking glamorous, like a Hollywood film star on a street full of English wizards. On days like this, she isn’t half as certain.

“Nonsense,” she mutters, standing up suddenly. She almost knocks the chair over and barely catches it in time. “You’re just fine.”

But it sticks, the idea that she’s started to pick up an English accent. She’s starting to sound like she’s from London. It’s like she’s changing to match where she lives. Like Queenie doesn’t really exist. The face behind the counter isn’t real, and the voice in Jacob’s ear isn’t real, and…where does that leave her?

Queenie dabs at her eyes with her sleeve, not sure exactly where the tears came from. What’s wrong with her today? “I don’t know,” she answers herself out loud, sitting down on the edge of the bed, “what is wrong with me today?”

Nothing’s wrong with anyone else, at any rate. Queenie thinks about the last letter she got from Tina, talking about Alaska and wolves and how they’re going to Greenland, next. And how Newt had excitedly dashed off his own brief note, wishing her well. And the neat letter from Percival, discussing how Credence’s little garden project had sprawled over into a canning season that left them barely time to sleep with all the work they had to do. And…

Hm. She hasn’t heard from Credence in a while.

Queenie gets up and goes to the fireplace. There’s a badly-functioning and illegal Floo in the house in Russia—nothing they can travel through, but which will allow them to make small Firecalls, every now and again. She tosses a pinch of Floo Powder into the fireplace, kneels down, and puts her head in the fire, declaring the address clearly.

When her head appears in the fireplace, it’s to a dark sitting room. Of course: it’s just after eight o’clock where Queenie is, and in Russia it’ll be after midnight. “Hello?” she says softly. Perhaps she’d better just end it.

But then the door opens and Credence comes into the room, remarkably awake. The radio-static thoughts of the Obscurus surround him as always, but they’re quiet and fairly calm. “Queenie?” he whispers. “What are you doing in the fireplace?” _surprise STATIC_

“I forgot how late it was,” she says. “Sorry, honey. I should go.”

He shuts the door and then sits down cross-legged in front of her. “No, stay,” he says with a small smile. “Percival’s asleep and I won’t be out for another…a while.” _STATIC company STATIC lonely_

“Still having trouble?”

“Less, but I think that it’s Percival mostly,” Credence admits. _STATIC nightmares_ “How are you?”

Queenie pauses. “I’m not doing so good,” she says at last.

Credence cocks his head, shoving a lock of loose hair behind his ear. It’s getting really long, almost touching his shoulders now. She remembers when it had just been a mop of short curls, when they met a year and a half ago. He looks so much more settled like this, more comfortable in his own skin. It makes her proud. “What’s wrong?” _worrisome STATIC tonight?_

“Just feeling a little off,” Queenie says. Offhanded, she adds, “Jacob told me today that I’m starting to sound English.”

“Is that bad?” Credence asks. _STATIC accent_

“I don’t know.”

He sighs. _you’re miserable STATIC_ “It doesn’t sound like it makes you happy.”

Queenie wants to wipe her eyes. “It doesn’t.”

“Why not?” _STATIC_

“I ain’t sure what I am,” she whispers.

The young man gives her the softest, kindest smile. “What do you mean?” _STATIC love you STATIC_

“Everyone’s off knowing what they are, what they do. Tina’s an adventurer now and Newt never didn’t know what he is, and Jacob’s got his baker and Percival’s got a life of his own and you…”

“I still don’t know what I am,” Credence murmurs. _STATIC STATIC just an Obscurial_

That brings Queenie up short. “You’re a writer,” she says. “And my friend, and…”

“I’m worse than that,” Credence says, looking at her sadly. He rubs his arms, and she can hear he doesn’t mean to do it. “I…ask Jacob about what he caught me doing, back in China. And why.” _STATIC blood STATIC STATIC STATIC STATIC_

The tempo of Credence’s thoughts is charged and the shadows are creeping. She knows what he’s talking about, but it’s an unacknowledged law in the family that she doesn’t talk about secrets like that until the secret-keeper is ready. “Honey…”

He shakes his head. The shadows slow. _STATIC calm calm calm_ “It doesn’t matter. All I’m saying is that none of us know. I can’t speak to anyone else…but Percival doesn’t know what to do without being an Auror. He’s having as hard a time as I am, or you are.”

Surely that can’t be. “He sounds so confident in his letters!”

Credence’s mouth twitches. “He only ever sends the third draft along.” _perfectionist STATIC_

Queenie laughs quietly. “All right, I get what you’re saying.”

“I’m just saying, I…think it’s all right, not to know what you are,” Credence says softly. _STATIC it has to be all right_

“Is it?” Queenie asks. She’s always been so sure of who she is.

Credence nods. “I was sure, for a long while,” he says, and she suddenly wonders if he’s a Legilimens too, or if they’re just that alike. _STATIC changes STATIC_ “I knew who I was, and what I was, and it was all right. And then Tina came along, and Grindelwald, and…now I just don’t know. And that’s all right. I might figure it out, someday.”

“And what if we don’t?” Queenie asks, looking up at him plaintively.

“Doesn’t matter,” Credence says. He smiles, small and determined. “Doesn’t matter if we ever realize it, because we’re still here.” _I’m still here_

Before she can go, Credence leans forward until he’s practically in the fireplace to kiss her forehead. They don’t exchange any more words. Queenie wishes she could hug him, but unfortunately she can’t fit her whole body through the Floo. She ends the Fire Call and sits in front of the fireplace for a minute, thinking about that.

Jacob comes in just as she’s sliding under the covers. “Hey. How are you, kitten?” he asks, taking off his jacket and draping it over the chair.

Queenie stares up at the ceiling, thinking about that question. Tomorrow is going to be another day in their new normal. It won’t be any different from today, except that she’ll be walking into it with her eyes open. Maybe she’ll figure something out. Maybe not. But Credence is probably right. “Still here,” she says softly. “I’m still here.”

**Author's Note:**

>  _Our Dancing Daughters_ was a silent film released in September 1928 starring Joan Crawford. Her role as Diana was the one that gave her real stardom, and her hairstyle in the film is definitely a kind of Marcel wave. (Also, check out Clara Bow’s hair…DEFINITELY a Queenie hairstyle there!)
> 
> Also, with this fic, the ’verse officially passes the Bechdel Test! Queenie and Millie take the win here. Congratulations, ladies!


End file.
